To mark IWD, we're publishing this poem from a new collection by Sheree Mack called skinshame, to be published shortly by Culture Matters.‘We’ll show you you’re a woman’ was the title of a report compiled by Human Rights Watch into the violence and discrimination experienced by black lesbians and transgender men in South Africa.

‘We'll Show You You're a Woman’in memory of Eudy Simelane

The minute you see likeness is when you realise that no matter what you're going through in your life, you are not alone- Zanele Muholi

a) On the outskirts of Johannesburg, she is finally cured.

b) The Namaqualand daisy is in flashy orange bloom.

c) They say Satan has a hold on her. She is a demon.

d) I am afraid to be myself.

e) In a park, on a moonless night, they each take their turn to correct her.

f) The township always smells of Omo washing powder,even when we have no water.

g) My mother says I must take a boyfriend. She invites the Pastor into our home to convert me.

h) No way a finger or tongue can satisfy you, he says. You need one of these to sort you out, he says as he pulls down his pants.

i) They find her naked body in a creek,stabbed 28 times, including the soles of her feet.

j) No one is saying anything. No one has been caught.

k) I sense the guys in my neighbourhood are planning something. They cannot accept me choosing a woman. My day will come.

The story of Sarah Baartman is the story of the African people....It is the story of the loss of our ancient freedom...(and) of our reduction to the state of objects who could be owned, used and discarded by others - Thabo Mbeki, 2002.

Pardon I human

is what she sayswhen they cage her like an animalwhen they put her on the stageand when they throw abuse her way.

Pardon I human

is what she sayswhen she is told to walk up and downwhen she is forced to parade her waresand when they ask her to smile.

Pardon I human

is what she sayswhen she sees their curiositywhen she sees their fear,and when it spills out intothe room like dis-ease.

Pardon I human

is what she sayswhen he pokes her with his cane,when she pinches her cheeksand when he asks is all this junk real.

Pardon I human

is what she sayswhen she sees their disgustwhen they make her the 'other'and when they call her a freak.

Pardon I human

is what she sayswhen they pull back her apronwhen she hears all sorts of cries and jeerswhen they peer deep inside

Pardon I human

is what she sayswhen she signed the contractwhen he promised her half of the takingswhen he promised to return her home.

Pardon I human

is what she sayswhen she burns to see the veld againwhen dark beady eyes surround herand when the ugly voices get excited.

Pardon I human

is what she would have said, if she could,when they waxed her skinwhen they fossilized her genitalsand when they pickled her brain.

And when they put her body parts on display in a museumwhen for years to come, she continued to bea freak show in death as she was in life.

Pardon I human.

Sarah Baartman (before 1790 – 29 December 1815) was exhibited as a freak show attraction in 19th century Europe under the name Hottentot Venus.

I belong. I have forgotten myself. I have forsaken myself; my voice, my love, my soul.

I have looked upon myself and found me wanting. I allowed those fears and doubts inside to marry up with those controlling critical voices outside. Together they solidified into a giant insurmountable wall around me; my voice, my truth, my soul.

And each day I added a brick into the wall. With each job and gig and publication I received based on some manufactured voice, l made the charade harder to let go. This voice, I became an expert in, as this voice fitted in, this voice was good enough for them.

This false voice was based on fear. Watered down and weak and accepted, keep-them-laughing-in-their-seats kind of voice.But I'm here today, right now, telling you; all those fearful, doubting, critical, 'I'm not enough kind of voices', both internal amd external, to fuck right off.

I mean it. Fuck off. All you've done is silenced me, muzzled me, white-washed me. Turned me into a house nigger. Yes I'll be real good. I'll not speak or step out of line. Or be different.

I'll be good real good. I'll not do or say anything to make you feel uncomfortable. Do anything you want to me. Beat me. Humiliate me. Shame me. I'll just keep on smiling, good. Look at my teeth.

I've played my part so well that you don't have to police me any more. I've internalised all this hate that I police myself.

You can't curse nobody. Look at you. You black, you pore, you ugly, you a woman. Goddam, he say, you nothing at all.

- The Color Purple, Alice Walker.

Fuck 'em. You are not me. I am not my fears. I am not small and silent. I am not compliant. I am complicit no more.I am a black woman from a rich ancestral lineage. I come from a people who fought and suffered and died so I could live. Deal with it.

I don't need your raggedy-arse fears and criticism and dirty looks. You said those things to keep me in my place. To keep me from fulling my full potential. My true potential.

It's over. You and all your cronies. The power you had over me is gone. I have seen the light. And I'd rather live my life my way. True to me.

I'm unique. There ain't ever gonna be anyone like me on this here earth again. So it's my birthright to live my life right by me. The real, authentic me. The whole me you've been trying desperately to keep in a box. The wild me you've tried to shame and silence.

You ain't gonna do that any more. I am my own queen, I have sovereignty. I have the power. Walk away now. Go on, fuck off.

In honour of International Women’s Day, I would like to share with you some new poetry that I have been writing which looks at women from the past, who I have a lot to be thankful for. I have also been exploring issues that women have to tackle day in and day out, not just within society at large but also within their own thoughts and feelings towards themselves.

The first poem is about my search for the foremother of Black British Women’s Poetry, Phillis Wheatley. An African slave educated in America, her collection of poetry was published in London in 1773, and called Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral.

they say she was an uncultivated barbarian

Art is not just for oneself, not just a markerof one's own understanding. It is a map forthose who follow after us - Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Chapter 1

i look for you when i lecture in Bostoni walk the long avenue through buddedtrees and snow unsure of my pathi need to see youfor myself what is left of youit's cold and bright busy and noisyi think the city is getting preparedfor their marathon

you are a memorialpoised in bronze imagining the starsyou strike the pose i've seen many timesquill in right hand left hand tuckedunder chin deep in thought

i advance close look into your eyesthe eyes that claimed the authorityto see for yourselfbut you here now are stillcarved in the way they saw youalways having to prove your worthprove your humanity

Chapter 3

i take your story like medicinethe facts are theresometime in 1772you as the young African girl walkinto a room in Boston Massachusettsto undergo an examinationby (white) men of worthmerchants governors pastors

they give you permission to useyour voice a voice already yoursi'm interested in how you standare your hands begin your backwringing within your lapor sticking firmly to your hips

Chapter 5

long i stand in your radiancethis afternoonmy hand on your handwith the weight of historyagainst us but i see youi walk on down the avenueon my own terms.

Our Labour Saving Device

the lay sister sits by the open fireknitting after another busy dayshe longs for space to breatheher clicking needles keep time withthe clock upon the manteland a barn owl swoops between the firsas the new moon remains hiddenshe longs for that moment of releasetoo old for use then she will take offher stockings and run barefoot amongstthe fallen blossom cool petalsclinging to damp fleshand one heart beating just for her

(A lay sister is a woman who has taken religious vows and habit but is employed for manual labour and nothing else.)

Sometimes, women have a difficult time around their own and others' opinions towards their bodies. Self-hate, as well as trying to live up to unrealistic standards that are within the airbrushed media, puts serious pressure on women to fit ‘the standard’. Here I take a serious and not so serious look at my own body. Self-love is a practice, something we as women have to learn and keep re-learning.

i want to be the light

i will roll upwards towards the lighttilting my breasts out and uppushing out my rounded stomachi gain a stretch through my thighsit takes me closeri will not gather up my broad backsideand try to squeeze tight into a small spacethat will never accommodate my sizei want to spread share my fleshlike the warmth touching meas I arch my back hands behind my headhead turned towards the light openingmy body to the lighti want to be the light

On discovering my navel

Just the other day, I caught a glimpseof it while getting out the bath. I almostlost my balance as I was unsure what to make of it.

Even from that angle, I could tell it was deep,a deep cavernous tunnelburrowing through the centre of my being.Almost like a gaping mouth forever

open as I clutched the billowing flesharound it. I'll be honest with you,I was quite perturbed by the whole affair.And would you believe that I let out a cry

of Eureka. Yes quite definitely Eureka.And then I proceeded to name it Norman.

In some societies marriage is still the only way out for woman. ‘Out’ being the optimum word as it can be argued in some cases, that this ‘out’ is from one restricted life into another. In the past a woman's worth was defined by her husband's status. Things are changing, but in some societies, a woman is still nothing without a man.

a wall of ocean between

she threw away the two personturkey carcass that morningas three waves thunderedtheir way over a tropical island

he spent the holidaysglued to news reportshow can you watch the destructioni'm being a witness he replied

upstairs she placed the red dressand black heels into a Sainbury'scarrier bag the whiff of vanillareminds her of their wedding

the warnings were there to seejust like the ocean quickly withdrewfrom the shore a curious sightluring people closer

only to be left exposedwhen the water returnspowers over their headstunnelling through their homes

she left him on the couchabsorbed in the spectacleshe heard later more womenthan men perished

women waiting on the beachfor their fishermen's returnready to fillet the fishready to discard the bones

Sheree Mack, the poet mentioned by Andy Croft in his article on the privatisation of poetry, presents a selection of poems to mark International Women's Day.

Phenomenal Woman, That's Me

by Maya Angelou

‘Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's sizeBut when I start to tell them,They think I'm telling lies.I say,It's in the reach of my armsThe span of my hips,The stride of my step,The curl of my lips.I'm a womanPhenomenally.Phenomenal woman,That's me.’

International Women’s Day is the one day in the year when we actively mark, honour and celebrate the social, economic, cultural and political achievement of women around the world. Women contribute so much to the day to day working of this world that one day is hardly enough to recognise this. But it’s a start. And we may celebrate this day, but the fight to recognise and equally repay our debt to women in society is far from over. The move towards gender parity has slowed down.

‘The World Economic Forum predicted in 2014 that it would take until 2095 to achieve global gender parity. Then one year later in 2015, they estimated that a slowdown in the already glacial pace of progress meant the gender gap wouldn't close entirely until 2133: see http://www.internationalwomensday.com/Theme

So this year’s IWD campaign theme is #PledgeForParity. How will you mark the day? What will you do to help women advance equal to their numbers?Visit the link above to pledge your action.

The first poem in my selection comes from Mark Smith who has been campaigning endlessly to support his friend, Aderonke. Aderonke fled to the UK, from her native Nigeria about a decade ago. She was sentenced to death there for being in a lesbian relationship and has witnessed terrible things there, including the murder of loved ones. Despite this, she has been a strong campaigner for LGBTQI rights and in recent times has been awarded the LGBT Positive Role Model National Diversity Award. In addition to this, Aderonke has for two years running been officially one of the 101 most influential people in Britain. She faces a continual struggle to remain in the UK, having lost numerous (and humiliating) court cases. I continue to share her petition, (which has many signatories) in the hope that she shall finally gain political asylum here. Mark’s poem is a mini-tribute to her.

An Ode to Aderonke

by Mark Smith

She has passion, love and resiliencethough her life requires great persistence.

Fighting prejudices of intolerable measureshe still seeks out the joy of life’s treasures.

Having gained many supporters,there is a lot she has taught us!

The next poem was generously given by Caroline Kemp, a woman who tirelessly provides a voice for people with mental illnesses through her university work, lectures, talks and poetry. The poem explores the difficulties faced by women wanting to write.

Poem for Katharine Mansfield

by Caroline Kemp

'Oh to be a writer, a real writer, given up to it and it alone'.

I see you as the middle child,Unwilling Willed outNo favourite uncomfortable wordsFamily remarks'I see you are still fat'Restless little thundercloud.

And later grown tallercello fingers head full of wordsthe river pulled you,the pine forests calledsultry swooning heavy with heatin stockings bodices petticoats arm shields and dresshem lines water damp wet.A cover of night starsA morning of birdsongbreast high in the manuka trees,mimosa clover lily of the valleypausing in the moment with the giant horse flyby the clear water.

Splashes splashes of light falling fallingfalling through the trees

I dream of your pen tumblingwith inkslipping easily over paperfeelings rushingliving in the twilight.

And so much loving and hating,Packets of love and hate hastily doled out.Virginia grasped it straight awayLawrence's rainbowThe presence of those eyes,the mocking lips,a mask a ghost

I see you in Parisa hat of cherries a long cloak a white feza turban over a bold red mouth.

Soon the bacillus would grow.Pen teeming emotionA garden party in your head.

Lies Lies LiesHow you loved them, breathed them....your truths.Living a life of half made dreams....such dreams....The black bird in the corner of your eyeswaiting to alight,shadows racing across the skyGrass of bluebells cuckoo songafraid to stop or settlequicklyfootsteps hurrying on.

The ink spilling'I feel I shall die soon but not of my lungs'Your blood buzzing rushingyour heart full of bees....These truths you told yourself ....

Too soon too soon the bacillus gathering,growing.

The feeling of the closed door, the locked gatethe twilight, the leaves, the dust.

And at the end too soon too soonVirginia would mourndespite the words, the promises,your miss.She saw the wreath on your hair,the cold white flowers.Another dream....Leaving always leavingimpatient to be goneThe ink spillingLeaving leavingthe curtains closedimpatient to begone.

With thanks to Claire Tomalin for her fine biography 'A Secret Life'And the diaries of Virginia Woolf and Katherine Mansfield.

Catherine Graham wrote the next poem in response to hearing Lucia Matibenga’s story. Lucia Matibenga is a Zimbabwean politician working with the United Movement for Democratic Change.

Sticks and Stones

by Catherine Graham

Even though you beat me,you cannot keep me under your table.

You beat meto put me in my right placeas a woman. My right place is being free.

Free to fight for the right to speak out.Speak out against injustice, inaction, poverty.

If you believe that pain willmake me put my hands over my mouth,then you are misled.

I cup my hands up to my lips and drinkto Justice, Equality, Dignity.

For I do not fade like a bruise fades,I heal like a broken bone.

from Things I Will Put In My Mother's Pocket (Indigo Dreams Publishing)

Eliot North submitted a poem in honour of IWD which is taken from a developing collection of poems called ‘Flora Speaks’, a working collaboration with Dr Henry Oakeley, Garden Fellow at the Royal College of Physicians. Henry’s book ‘Doctors in the Medicinal Garden’ has been source material throughout and this poem was inspired by ‘Asclepias tuberosa’ or ‘American Milkweed,’ named after Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine and son of Apollo.

Self-migration

by Eliot North

My re-birth will eclipseMother’s funeral pyre;

Layers of self strippedBack and light-bolted,

Biology enhancedWith digital snips.

How I milked my host,Poison sap to bone;

A snake wrapped aroundThe wooden staff of life.

You. Do not eat my hope.These wings are poised

To visit Pine valleysFrom Canada to Mexico.

I’ll overwinter there,My undergarments spun

From the senses, codedIn silken memory.

Next up we have translations by Niveen Kassem of two poems by Ghada Al-Samman. Al-Samman is gaining an international reputation, as she continues to write controversially about the Arab world. A prolific writer, she isn’t afraid to speak out, documenting and sharing, in innovative ways, Middle Eastern life and suffering which mostly goes ignored.

Al-Samman's writing shows defiance and determination to challenge the status of women in traditional, patriarchal Arab society. The poems tackle gender inequality in all affairs of life. Taking women's emancipation to a higher level, the poems take off like spreading wings of thoughts, flying in our imaginations like liberated birds, escaping a tradition that enriches and nourishes gender inequality.

Two Poems

by Ghada Al-Samman

1.

Do not bless me coldlykill me warmlyso we can be loyal for life

rather expiring together slowlywe become patriots in death.

Behold, I now open the box of sins

to recall my share of stars,of flowers, butterflies and the lies;I run from the orphanage of womenWho yield kindness and tearfulness

to where I can make my own seasons,winds, forests and falconsand demagnetizes my compass needle that leadsonly to the directions of you …

2.

When metthe gypsy inside me suddenly wakesfrom long slumber of social oppressions.

Nature had spoken,her delicious river beckons:‘Come and learn how to swim,’

breathe and your lungs filled with air.

And the wind assures:‘I am the voice of the unexplored Continents,’

do you miss travelling there……

The Sun declares:‘Avail the wisdom of birds,’

residing in the nest, a transient ritual.Only aviation is the absolute truth.

The final poem included in this selection comes from Sue Spencer, a former Senior Lecturer of Nursing, now fighting hard to marry her writing and good health together. I think this poem illustrates well the lengths a woman has to go to in order to be true to herself, to be authentic at the same time as changing the world around her. Check out Sue’s blog, https://kindandcurious.wordpress.com/

Finding the path

by Sue Spencer

She thought that to be a trail blazeryou had to create an indelible course,burning signs into the landscape.

Now she knows that the routecan be determined by subtle,almost imperceptible chips in the bark.

The way ahead will then be therefor those that know what to look for,those who can notice nuanced clues.

That way the tribe can grow slowlyand also they will get there in their own time.

News

Culture Matters is pleased to announce that the second Bread and Roses Poetry Award, sponsored by Unite, is now open for entries. Details are as follows: Entries should consist of one original, previously unpublished poem, no more than 50 lines long. Entrants must be resident in the United Kingdom or Republic of Ireland Entry is free, and open to anyone regardless of trade union membership. There will be five prizes of £100 each; an award ceremony in Durham on 13 July linked to the Miners’ Gala, with travel and accommodation costs paid; and publication of all the outstanding poems in the 2018 anthology Entries should broadly deal with working class life, communities and culture. Themes might include work; the position and perspective of women; political issues of any kind; and art and culture. Entries should be sent to This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. by midnight on Friday 8 June, or by post to Culture Matters, c/o 8 Moore Court, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE15 8QE. Please include your name, address, contact details and the poem in the body of the email. When emailing or posting submissions please provide your name, email or postal address, and phone number. All entries remain the copyright of the author but Culture Matters and Unite will have the right to publish them.

Arts hub

Culture Matters is pleased to announce that the second Bread and Roses Poetry Award, sponsored by Unite, is now open for entries. Details are as follows: Entries should consist of one original, previously unpublished poem, no more than 50 lines long. Entrants must be resident in the United Kingdom or…

our mother’s day will come by Fran Lock my mother’s face exists in the space between kaijū and sphinx. she’s wearing clothes that holdher body in contempt. her breath, imperfect peppermint. she has to go to work. her earringsare obols, shorn of their funerary usage. palestflirtation of dubious gold. unclaimed…

To mark IWD, we're publishing this poem from a new collection by Sheree Mack called skinshame, to be published shortly by Culture Matters.‘We’ll show you you’re a woman’ was the title of a report compiled by Human Rights Watch into the violence and discrimination experienced by black lesbians and transgender…

Fran Lock has curated this year’s compilation of poetry for Culture Matters, to mark International Women’s Day. There are poems by Jane Burn, Sogol Sur, Joanne Key, Julia Bell, Anne Pelleschi, Beri Allen-Miller, and Fran herself, ending with a prose piece, On Fighting the Disconnect. Introduction When you put out…

30 years ago at approx 3.30pm Mairéad Farrell was murdered by the British state on Gibraltar. Standing by her side, also with his hands in the air, was Dan McCann who was also shot dead. A few hundred metres away Sean Savage was to have a similar fate. At the…

An Unfortunate Case by Chris Norris Portugal’s president has described the circumstances in which a homeless Portuguese man died near the UK parliament as ‘inhumane’. Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa paid tribute to the unnamed man found dead in an underpass near Westminster tube station, a stone’s throw from an entrance to…

Sanjiv Sachdev reviews an exhibition focusing on the influential, dangerous and subversive power of jazz. It is nearly a century since live Jazz came to Britain. Playing at the London Hippodrome in April 1919, the Original Dixieland Jazz Band first brought the music to these Isles, followed soon after by…

Jenny Farrell introduces the life and poetry of Maxim Gorky, who was born 150 years ago, and presents his poem Storm Petrel, prophesying revolution. Alexei Maximovich Peshkov, or Maxim Gorky, was born 28 March 1868 in Nizhny Novgorod (named Gorky,1932-1990), and died 14 June 1936. He was a Russian and…

Culture hub

Richard Clarke outlines how religion, like any other cultural activity, is capable of both promoting political and social liberation, and being manipulated and controlled by ruling classes who attempt – and very often succeed – in turning it into a force for conservatism. Most Marxists would say that it is…

Sam DeLeo offers an imaginative critique of contemporary American culture. Can the killing of a few sacred cows deliver us from our current bleak circumstances, and usher in a new morning? The free library box near our Denver apartment building is called the Little Free Library. It sits on a wooden post anchoring…

Conrad Landin introduces the AV Festival in Newcastle. When the AV Festival lost its funding in the latest round of Arts Council awards, there was little outcry in the national press. The fact that the festival is defiantly not London focused — connecting as it does north-east England with art…

Stephen Pritchard protests with a blog against the involvement of BAE Systems in the Great Exhibition of the North, and Keith Armstrong protests with a poem. This blog is a brief response to the artwashing of the Great Exhibition of the North, particularly the inclusion of BAE Systems as a…

Chi Onwurah MP made the following address at the opening of the biannual AV Festival in Newcastle upon Tyne recently. You know the mining institute is one of my favourite buildings in the city, built by engineers, enjoyed by everyone. But as I stand here with Rebecca opposite the picture gallery…

Peter Doran points to the way buddhist concepts are being corrupted by the commodifying pressures of capitalist culture, and outlines the ways in which true mindfulness practices can help us resist the growing demands of the 'attention economy'. Neoliberal capitalism is an advanced form of symbolic and material power. We…

In the second essay in the series, Roland Boer discusses the relationship between religion and capitalism. The essay is also available as an ebook, and is part of the Culture Matters mission to reclaim and liberate all aspects of our human culture. Our aim with religious and spiritual life is the same…

Stephen Pritchard outlines a brief history of art, property and artwashing, and calls on us to take art back from the capitalists – in all their guises. Art has always been a form of property. During the Renaissance, art was the property of Royalty, the nobility and the church. It was…

The arts are just a part of the weapons of life. Art can make us see and feel reality and help change that reality. Art is revelation. Art is hard work. Art is part of protest.

Jayne Cortez

Art is not a mirror held up to reality, but a hammer with which to shape it.

Bertolt Brecht

The most precious thing in the sharp ebb and flow of the revolutionary waves is the proletariat's spiritual growth.

Rosa Luxemburg
Letters from Prison

The individual will reach full realization as a human creature, once the chains of alienation are broken. This will be translated concretely into the reconquering of one's true nature through liberated labor, and the expression of one's own human condition through culture and art,